


The semantics of worry

by Elisexyz



Series: Febuwhump 2021 (TMFU) [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (They Are Idiots Your Honor), Blood and Injury, Concussions, Hurt Illya, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Worried Napoleon Solo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29065833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: Ordinarily, Napoleon doesn’t do worry.Under certain extraordinary circumstances, though, he’s more than capable of doing what he’d call ‘nausea-inducing panic’.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: Febuwhump 2021 (TMFU) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2142537
Comments: 14
Kudos: 79
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	The semantics of worry

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Imprisonment" prompt in the Febuwhump event, because of course I'm starting on day three, that's just the kind of person I am LOL.

Ordinarily, Napoleon doesn’t do worry.

Under certain extraordinary circumstances, though, he’s more than capable of doing what he’d call ‘nausea-inducing panic’. Sitting in a shitty basement with his unconscious partner’s head on his lap and his hands sticky with blood is definitely one of those extraordinary circumstances.

All this because Illya couldn’t just go quietly, no, he had to _fight_ and gain himself a nasty enough concussion to knock him out for longer than Napoleon is comfortable thinking about. To make matters worse, Napoleon had to sacrifice his poor jacket to the – undoubtedly noble, but still – cause of keeping as much blood as possible inside Illya’s head, and it didn’t even work too well, judging by the state of his pants.

He should have just let him lie on the ground, he deserves it.

At least he knows that Gaby will come soon: he saw her, when their cover was blown, and she managed not to get caught. She probably called for reinforcements – because thank god she was smart enough to avoid charging in guns blazing –, and with a bit of luck they will arrive soon.

“I hope I have one of those trackers of yours on me,” he mutters, with a sigh. That would certainly make Gaby’s job easier.

“I always have tracker on you,” Illya says, drily. Napoleon jumps a little at the startle, low-key annoyed at the realization that, given their current positions, his reaction can’t have gone unnoticed. Illya seems too busy squinting and grimacing to make fun of him for it, at least.

“Do you,” Napoleon deadpans, trying to keep his flooding relief out of his voice. “That is concerning, considering that I keep throwing them away.”

Illya hums. “Terrible spy,” he only says, before he predictably tries to push himself up.

Napoleon realizes only then that he’d had one hand resting on Illya’s forehead, and he promptly moves it to his shoulder, pushing him down with not even that much force. “Where do you think you are going? Stay down, the last thing we need is you faceplanting on the floor.”

He sincerely hopes that Illya’s face growing two shades paler when he pulled himself up a few inches was only a trick of the light, but the fact that he hums in affirmative and collapses right back on his lap screams just the contrary.

Napoleon is not concussed, he should not feel like throwing up, what kind of injustice is this?

“Good,” he breathes out, with the distinct feeling that his smile is strained. Illya has closed his eyes again, but his tense jaw and the sharp breaths he’s taking tell him that at least he isn’t sleeping. “I’ll admit, happy as I am that you just listened to me, it’s actually freaking me out a little. Or a lot.” He swallows. “Don’t die on me, will you?”

Illya huffs, like he thinks he’s being stupid – right now, Napoleon loves his judgemental attitude like he’s only ever loved few things in his life –, but he’s kind enough to open his eyes in what he guesses is his way of reassuring him that he’s present to the moment.

His continuous blinking is a little unsettling, but Napoleon will take it.

“Well, at least you have a great view from down there,” he comments, with his broadest and most brilliant smile.

Illya snorts, the curve of his mouth betraying his amusement. “Could be worse,” he acknowledges, and it sounds fond.

Napoleon blinks at him, his stomach fluttering in what he’s pretty sure is a mix of stone-cold dread and highly inappropriate gushing at the sort-of-compliment.

_Great_ , he thinks, bitterly. _He’s delirious. Fantastic_.

“Remind me to hold this over your head once you feel better,” he says, absentmindedly brushing some hair off Illya’s forehead. And by ‘absentmindedly’ he means that he realizes a few seconds too late, lets the fact that he didn’t get murdered for it sink in, and elects to simply leave his hand there. If Illya asks, he is only trying to make sure that he keeps still, so there’s enough pressure against the wound in the back of his head – nevermind that it should have stopped bleeding, at this point.

Most worryingly, Illya seems to lean into his touch, not reacting to his teasing in any way and closing his eyes for a few seconds too long.

“Gaby will be here soon with reinforcements,” Napoleon says, he isn’t sure for whose benefit.

He refuses to even contemplate any other outcome.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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